


The first to leave

by thebookhunter



Series: The ballad of Victor Trevor [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Bad Romance, Basically lots of issues, Comfort/Angst, Daddy Issues, Drug Use, M/M, Mycroft has self-esteem issues, Pre Canon, Unhappy Ending, Victor is not a douche in this story, brother issues, but mainly just angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-30
Updated: 2014-04-30
Packaged: 2018-01-21 10:31:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1547444
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebookhunter/pseuds/thebookhunter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft is a minor civil servant on the rise. Victor is a lot of trouble. Too young, too wild, and actually just right if all a minor civil servant wants is a bit of fun (well, alright, a LOT of fun) and a breather from one's busy work life. </p><p>If only things could just be simple and stay simple. But as it turns out, goldfish have feelings too...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

 

      The chatter is inane and the wine ridiculous. The suit rubs at the nape. He really needs to get his wardrobe up to some sort of standard. If and when he gets the bloody commission. He twists a smirk to the crone who’s telling him about the United Fruit Corp bonds and realises just how fake it came out. Tunes it down a bit. Better. (He has practiced this in front of a mirror. His body and he have never had a comfortable relationship. He needs to hone it and train it well. Already he has got himself into trouble with Lord Osborne for an irrepressible eye-roll at the wrong time. Oh, but people can be so irritating. Surely an eye-roll here and there should be allowed!)

      Oh-oh, who is that? Tall, blond, curls, the foxy face, the eyes... Yes, he sees the resemblance. It’s Charles Trevor’s son, of course. The trouble-maker, his father calls him. Well, yes, most definitely, it’s not hard to surmise why one would call him that. He seems bored. It becomes him. Mycroft supposes Trevor Senior is attempting to break the boy in for when it’s time for him to take over. Poor old man. God save Trevor Industries if they should ever fall in the hands of that playboy. Mr. Trouble has decided to make a point with a suit that’s far too modern for this milieu, and the shirt is too fashionably tight, and the top buttons undone showing his long, taut neck and a wisp of hair... Mycroft, stop staring. Oh god, he’s staring back. Oh god. He’s coming. Am I that obvious? School your face, man, he’s got nothing on you.

      Trevor Junior walks right by him, throwing him a smouldering look that could melt a rock just as he brushes his shoulder. He disappears through the door at the end of the hall, but not without looking back at him once more, straight in the eye, with a burning glare that Mycroft actually feels in his spine.

      So, it would appear that Mr.Trouble is just a bit more trouble than even Mycroft thought. Mycroft’s throat is dry. How has this happened? How has it happened to him?? These things never happen to him. He sips his awful wine. A grimace. He was supposed to make an appearance. Well, he’s made the appearance. Lord Osborne will be fuming if he doesn’t find Mycroft at his beck and call and trotting around the Big Fish gathered here today like a puppy. But Lord Osborne is not here now. Although he could be back at any second.

      Oh bugger this.

      He walks towards the door taking the long route around the hall, full of people standing around in groups, glasses in their hands, waiters floating around the place with trays of nibbles. He slaloms around them, trying to avoid making eye contact, always looking beyond, as if he’s just spotted somebody he had better talk to. Nobody too interesting, mind, he doesn’t want people turning around to see whom he’s actually after.

      Along the way, he keeps checking on the sly if anyone is paying him any attention. Apparently not. Well, he is insignificant after all. For now. He puts his glass down on the long buffet table (gains him a frown from a waiter when he thinks Mycroft can’t see him.) He gets to the door. One last furtive look. Coast is clear. The door clicks shut behind him.

      He has stepped out into a long, majestic corridor, twenty feet wide and miles long, pink-white marble and twisted columns, thick rugs in rich reds with flecks of gold and green, a row of white neo-classical style busts and ancestor family portraits on one side, and triple height windows facing a courtyard on the other. The Trevor mansion is a monster. But it’s not so much a family house as a museum. The portraits on the wall are not Trevors. The man is new money. But then again, if you were to ask anybody in the big hall right now, it’s the money part that counts. And Charles Trevor has it in spades.

      Movement just at the corner of his eye. Ah, here’s young Mr.Trouble, perched on a window sill, stark blue-green eyes still intent on Mycroft. Too thin, too tall, too pale… brittle. Who does he remind him of… only this one’s blonde. And perfectly aware of what his looks do to people, unlike somebody he knows. He’s butting a cigarette and waiting. So Mycroft goes.

      Just when he’s two steps away, Mr.Trouble stands up and crosses the corridor to one of the doors. As he opens the door and enters the room behind it, he’s already shedding his jacket and, Mycroft notes with a catch in his breath, his shirt. And he doesn’t turn once to check if Mycroft’s following before he starts getting rid of his trousers, revealing a gasp-inducing absence of underwear.

      Mycroft is gaping like an idiot and has a raging hard-on and they haven’t even touched yet. He walks slowly towards the room. Takes one step inside and quickly scans the place -force of habit. An office. The books are shelf-fillers. Clunky desk, brass knick-knacks. Club chairs, formulaic. And Mr. Trouble standing in the middle of it all, buck naked and hard. Mycroft realises he’s still gaping, and that his eyes are wide open, and that he must look utterly ridiculous.

      “Are you going to shut the door?” Trouble’s voice is silken and hot.

      Mycroft fumbles trying to find the door knob at his back and, while he’s distracted with that, Trouble comes over and buries his mouth in Mycroft’s neck and plants a hand on his crotch. Mycroft is pushed against the door while Trouble starts undoing his buttons (it had to be a three piece today!) Mycroft is panting and watching with unblinking eyes almost as if in an out-of-body experience how the quick, long-fingered hands work to open his clothes up.

      “You can touch me” purrs Trouble, working at his flies, his voice liquid velvet.

      Mycroft touches him, alright. He cup his plump, hard arse and pulls him closer. Trouble groans when their cocks press together. Mycroft kisses that taut neck heatedly. Now his trousers are falling, and alongside them drops Trouble, falling to his knees in front of him.

      “What’s your name?” says Trouble, his clear, bright eyes firmly locked on Mycroft’s. God, that voice.

      Mycroft gasps his stupid name.

      “I’m Victor” he winks, swallows Mycroft’s cock and starts sucking.

* * *

 

 

      “My dad will kill me” chuckles Victor genially, gesturing at the spunk on the rug.

      “Well, if you had told me I’d...” Mycroft blushes.

      “Oh, it’s quite alright. He’s going to kill me anyway sooner or later. Ruining his carpet is as good a reason as any other.” Not that he cares, not even to gloat at his naughty rebel ways.

      No, your father would let you get away with murder, thinks Mycroft, looking rather fondly at Victor’s sweet face and golden hair. Spoilt rotten rich kids, who haven’t got a clue what things are worth and live in a world in which things materialise by sheer power of the will. Or a phone call. Same thing. Quite adorable, really, in moderation.

      Victor’s clothes are back on but the shirt is still half undone. He’s evidently enjoying throwing Mycroft off-kilter by parading that gift of the gods that is his naked body.

      “So, are you government or corporation?” says Victor, lighting a cigarette and offering it to Mycroft. Mycroft takes it.

      “Government.”

      “Yes, you look the type.”

      “I do?”

      “Cheap suit.”

      Mycroft is offended for a second. Then Victor smiles ever so brightly. Mycroft is dazzled. I myself would gladly let you get away with murder with that smile, he thinks.

      “Yes, well, not all of us are born with a silver spoon in our mouths” Mycroft says pedantically, dusting some inexistent fluff off his shoulder.

      “Certainly.” A puff of smoke. “Do you want to meet up again?”

      This takes Mycroft by surprise. He opens his mouth and shuts it again. He coughs.

      “Do you want to?” he thinks he’s done a good job at suppressing the tone of disbelief from his voice.

      Victor shrugs and his smile spreads wider, his expression a glorious “why not?”

      Mycroft ponders for a minute. This is all incredibly stupid, the whole affair, and it has been from the moment he set eyes on him. He’s too young for him, and him too far up his arse, and his job, and Victor’s father...

      Victor squints at him from behind snaking tendrils of smoke, his face full of humor and joy and sex. Mycroft takes up a card from his inside pocket and hands it over.

      “I’m going to regret this” he says with his stuffiest schoolmaster’s tone.

      “Probably” replies Victor, checking the card, cigarette between his teeth. “But we’ll have a lot of fun together before it comes to that.” He stubbles the cigarette and gives him a Hollywood kiss that would damage a lighter constitution and makes Mycroft’s spent cock begin to stir back to life.

     “Got to dash” and Victor is out the door, still buttoning up his stupidly transparent too-tight too-thin too-flashy white shirt.

      Mycroft puts out the cigarette, rubs his face, wonders where the bloody bathroom is. Because he doesn’t know exactly how he looks like, but he fears that “well and truly rogered” might just describe it a bit too well.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

      Mycroft is basking in the afterglow and the warmth of the beautiful creature draped on the bed beside him. Victor seems neverending when he’s all sprawled like that. Mycroft’s eyes travel the vast expanse of smooth skin and taut flesh and he almost feels the need to pinch himself to make sure that this is real. One would think by now, after a few dates, he would be used to it. It’s rather embarrassing really, but Victor’s beauty still succeeds in stupefying him. Or rather, what dumbfounds him is the fact that it’s a beauty he can have.

      Mycroft gives in and starts tracing the grooves and bumps on Victor’s body with the tip of his fingers, just because he can. Victor closes his eyes and relaxes into it, looking very much like a cat getting his due. The holidays abroad don’t seem to have done his mood much good, but he’s golden head to toe, and Mycroft could swear he can still scent the sand and the salt in his hair. Mycroft has a vision of Victor swimming in the Pacific Ocean stark naked, and emerging from the waters like a dripping god of the sea. He starts to kiss his chest and stomach. Victor’s cock is stirring. He strokes it.

      “What does your father think of you?” says Victor all of a sudden.

      Mycroft doesn’t look up from his kissing.

      “He’s very proud of me I believe.” No point tailoring answers to suit. Victor says nothing to that. His eyes are still shut. His hand idles in Mycroft’s hair. “But I think he also worries.”

      “About what?”

      “That I’ll never find love.”

      “Because you’re gay?”

      “Because I’m me.”

      Victor seems to be pondering this for a minute.

      “Do you worry?”

      “No.” Open-mouthed kisses to Victor’s stomach, dipping his tongue in the grove of his hip muscle, making Victor squirm. “I’ve chosen a career path in which love is not really an option. Not the kind my father would hope for me anyway. What he has with my mother.”

      Mycroft creeps up and sucks on Victor’s nipple while he fondles the smooth inside of his thigh. Victor is getting hard again. God. He’s insatiable. Oh, to be 18 again. Victor’s eyes are still closed.

      “So you just fuck around” mutters Victor after a while, almost as if he doesn’t wish to be heard.

      “When I find somebody who’s amenable to the arrangement, yes” breathes Mycroft to Victor’s nipple.

      Victor snorts bitterly then, and turns to his side, shoving Mycroft off. Reaches for the stuff in the drawer by the bed, sitting up.

      “Must you do this now?” says Mycroft, disappointment and disgust in his tone while Victor prepares a line of coke.

      “Very much so, yes.”

      “Can’t it wait?”

      “After we’ve fucked?” he snarls. “No.”

      “I’ll get going then.” Mycroft gets up abruptly and proceeds to gather his neatly folded clothes from the chair by the bed.

      When he gets out of the bathroom, Victor is done snorting and is lying on his front, his eyes open and void. Mycroft looks at the perfect curve of his arse, the sublime expanse of his back, his magnificently long legs, and is almost tempted to change his mind. But he’s making a point, and damned if he’s going to let his cock do any more of the thinking when this boy is concerned.

      “I’m going now” Mycroft says from the door.

      “Goodbye” says Victor coldly, without looking once at him.


	3. Chapter 3

      Victor is pounding into him like a man possessed, and Mycroft is beginning to see stars. If Victor so much as looks at his cock he’s going to come. But he did say he’d make him come with no hands, and since apparently he can go for hours, he probably will. The steady slap of their bodies is exquisitely obscene. He’s going to limp for a week.

      “Ahhh, Victor” Mycroft hisses, feeling the build up to orgasm.

      “Talk dirty to me, Mycroft” says Victor “Drive me wild.”

      Victor’s voice causes a sudden surge of heat in his underbelly. The words spill out of his mouth of their own will.

      “Fuck me, yes, don’t stop, yes, fuck me, harder, harder, yes, yes, yes...!”

      Mycroft comes for England with a loud groan.

      Victor fucks him through it and pounds on. It takes him about 30 more seconds until he stops, shuddering, buried to the hilt, his eyes closed tight, his orgasm face something people should worship in churches. He stays in a bit longer, until his breathing has slowed down somewhat. Then flops onto the bed next to Mycroft, disposes of the condom, has a sip of water, lights a cigarette, hands Mycroft some tissues to clean himself up. And lies there, spent, flushed, beautiful, and very much not smiling.

      Mycroft wipes the cum off his belly and reaches over Victor for some water. Victor doesn’t stir. His eyes are lost somewhere far away.

      They stay there in silence for the duration of Victor’s smoke.

      “What has he done this time” says Mycroft after a while.

      “What?”

      “You only call me when your father has been up to something.” Mycroft’s derisive emphasis is designed to prickle and annoy, and it never misses its target.

      Victor doesn’t protest at Mycroft’s implication, but he looks miffed. He lights another cigarette.

      “What does it matter to you” his tone is quite civil, but his scowl very much isn’t.

      Mycroft can’t really give a straight answer to that. He has his pride.

      “Since your father’s comings and goings seem to dictate my sexual life,” he deflects “I wouldn’t mind having more data so that I can plan around your shenanigans.”

      “My shenanigans?”

      “Victor, darling, you give him all the ammunition. So what is it? Threatening to cut your allowance again?” his tone is prissy and irksome, and he knows it. But what can he do, Victor has all the trumps in this relationship, or whatever it is, and all that Mycroft has is his snark.

      Usually Victor takes the bite, the snark escalates into an ice-cold, perfectly understated yet deep-reaching argument, and it ends up with Mycroft parading out of the flat with a shit-eating smile on his face and Victor looking daggers. And by the time Mycroft gets home, he feels… irritated, annoyed, vaguely guilty, and rather tired.

      Not that Victor cares, not really. Why should he? He probably has a list long as his arm of fuckbuddies much more satisfying than Mycroft. He probably just shags him as a way to get back at his dad. Because, seriously, what else could he want with a 25-going-on-50-year-old ginger beanpole with a pot belly and the face of the love child of a ruddy cherub and a goblin?

      God, how it vexes him not to know why Victor keeps calling back! Victor had acted upset the time he asked. “Can’t I just like you?” he told him. “Must you mock me as well” Mycroft had snapped. Victor had looked sullen and confused. And oh, he does pull that one out with a flourish, what with those sweet, sad eyes of his! Mycroft had stormed out of that one in a huff, and had been smarting from it for days. How he hates people taking the piss out of him.

      And he decided to never ask again. He would just take what he could get. And take he does, the glorious sex that comes with the snark, the petty arguments, the overall lack of cheer; the bleakness that inevitably follows.

      Today Victor is not taking the bait. His eyes lost in thought, he takes deep, deep drags of his cigarette.

      “I just came out to him today” he anounces after a spell, still staring into the void. “He’s been going on all week about this girl I used to go out with when I was fifteen, and how much she’s grown and how lovely she is, and how happy Mom would be and blah blah blah. So today I finally told him.”

      Oh, the dead mother. Mycroft purses his lips. His hand twitches for a second with the impulse of holding Victor’s, but he doesn’t.

      “How did he react?” Mycroft doesn’t really need to ask, but that’s what polite people do.

      “He started to cry. The bloody bastard. He cried.” Victor pulls a crooked grin that cuts Mycroft to the bone. It’s like the evil twin of Victor’s usually delightful, generous, warm smile. It’s upsetting.

      “Did you tell him about…?”

      “About you?” snort. “No, Mycroft, your secret is safe with me.” A puff of smoke. Sour, sour.

      “What did you do?” says Mycroft at last.

      “I got the hell out of there and called you.” How wretched he makes that sound.

      Mycroft stays quiet now. He looks at that sweet young face so full of anguish, lost at sea, craving. Only a child sometimes. Almost 19, yes. Victor would say, indignant, that he is a grown man. And where has he heard that one before. Bloody 18-year-olds who think they have life sussed out. What do they know. He kisses Victor with all his sorrow for the poor, lost, hurting 18-year-olds of this world. Specially his.

     Victor clings onto him for dear life and Mycroft’s eyes very nearly tear up. Because Sherlock has not returned a hug since he was 13.

 

* * *

 

      Later that day, in his flat, Mycroft pours himself a measure of scotch he would usually deem excessive. He has visions in his mind of making love to Victor when his eyes were still red from crying. How tight Victor had held on to him, how long and sweet had the kisses been afterwards. How unsettling it had been to look into his sad eyes and feel the strong urge to… to let go, to give in. To love him. How broken had Victor looked when Mycroft had suddenly got up to go.

      “Stay” Victor had begged.

      “I couldn’t possibly” Mycroft’s voice had been hitched.

      “Why not?”

      And the answer to that question Mycroft would not own up to, not for all the tea in China.


	4. Chapter 4

      He hears Victor snorting in the bedroom.

      “You need to get help. This is out of control” Mycroft says from the bathroom, checking the newly-acquired bruise on his neck. Victor loves to brand him. To Mycroft it's an inconvenience, but he cannot deny the exhilaration when somebody at work spots it, the sense of triumph inside him when he thinks of the delightful, if rather trying, creature who has put it there. Even now, after all this time, even with the situation as dire as it is between them, Victor can still make him vibrate with lust and pride. Dear me, Mycroft thinks to himself. Dear me.

      Victor isn't saying much. Mycroft looks at him buttoning his jeans, hair disheveled, the pink flush on his face and chest screaming sex (and Mycroft feels a hot flush in his underbelly at the thought of what they have just been up to), the dark marks under his eyes and the sunken cheeks telling something else. The fact is, Victor is a mess. He is doing all the drugs in the circuit, and then some, and partying almost all the time, and what can Mycroft do? Stay away if he knows what's good for him. And he tries. He doesn't have time for this. His new office occupies him 16, 18 hours a day, and when he does get some time off, he really should not be spending it with a coke-head who indeed is the best fuck he ever expects to get in this life, but also an extra headache he really, really could do without. But he can't just leave it be, can he? No, he does try. This is not the first time he is raising the subject. Not that he expects any results, but still.

      “Surely you can see it yourself. This is going to kill you.” Has Mycroft manage to keep his tone cool enough? Because he would hate to sound like his father.

      “So be it” Victor hisses.

       Mycroft takes a step towards him, looks at him severely.

      “You don’t know what you’re saying” he chastises him.

      Victor gathers his keys, mobile and wallet, stuffs them in his pockets.

      “Leave me alone” he says softly, heading for the door.

      “I might just do that!” shouts Mycroft to his back.

      Yes, he sometimes tries to talk to Victor and what a world of good it has done them both.

 *

      There were a couple more dates after that. Sad, ugly, hot affairs that left a bitter taste in everyone’s mouth and Victor looking twenty years older. Mycroft despised himself for going whenever Victor called, for being wrapped around his finger. And he certainly made Victor pay for it.

 

     “This cannot go on, Victor” he had said after the last one, not knowing it was to be the last.

      Victor had only looked at him with his clear, sad eyes, and a bitter smile. And broken and ill as he was, he still shone with a dark light that pierced Mycroft through the heart.

 

* 

 

      That was not the last time they spoke. There had been a phonecall. Mycroft had phoned Victor, for once. I could get you help if you want me to, he had said.

      “Help.” Victor had sounded so bitter. “That’s why you call me.”

      “Your father doesn’t need to know. Nobody needs to know. It doesn’t take as long as you think.”

      A sour chuckle at the other end of the line.

      “That’s very sweet Mycroft” Victor’s tone was laced with sarcasm. Mycroft remembered the sunny, pleasant young boy he had fallen for so hard. “Why would you bother?”

      Mycroft had cleared his throat.

      “Because I care about you.”

      Victor had laughed long at that. He had sounded a bit crazed, to be honest.

      “Goodbye, Mycroft” and he’d hung up.

 

* 

 

      They did not talk again.

      It was really rather unsettling that it should have to end this way. Untidy. Oh well. At least the headache was gone. He’d find somebody else with less complications, or he’d do without completely, and what a relief that would be. The feeling of loss and hollowness and cheerlessness were completely normal and nothing to worry about, and would ease soon. And good riddance too. He simply had not time for this.

      But he did see him once more. It was a chance meeting in the street. Mycroft was leaving his office at a stupid hour, as usual, and Victor was with some friends and a very touchy-feely special friend. When he spotted Mycroft, Victor had jolted out of his reverie and looked across the street over to him, and he had looked so forlorn. He also looked drunk and high. Mycroft had looked down to his shoes and had hurried on without turning back.

      So that was the last he ever expected to see of him.

      But then, one Saturday afternoon, almost two years later, Mycroft stepped into Sherlock’s dorm-room, and there he was.

**Author's Note:**

> Beta'd by my beautiful friends Cloisteredself, The Navel Treatment and Hedwig-Dordt. Of course I can't leave things alone, thus, tinkering occurs. All remaining booboos you know who to blame on.


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